


A Necessary Evil

by anxietyqueen



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-25
Updated: 2018-06-26
Packaged: 2019-05-28 07:26:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15043754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anxietyqueen/pseuds/anxietyqueen
Summary: The Sheriff has a few words for Scott, even if they hurt.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Set sometime after Season 3, not strictly canon compliant.

Scott looks nervous and it occurs to Noah that, aside from emergencies, he can’t remember a time when he and Scott have been together without Stiles’ accompaniment. Stiles has always been there, filling the air with noise and action. Free from impending doom, Scott is quieter, more reserved, more like Noah himself. And so the room is quiet and he can feel the tension plainly. It does nothing to settle his nerves.

“Thanks for coming over Scott,” he starts. Scott nods earnestly, eyes wide. He’s always been such a sweet boy, eager to please. Noah suspects much of that comes from his early life. With a volatile father in home that could explode at any moment, it would have served him well to learn to tread lightly, make others happy first.

But that train of thought isn’t helping the acid churning in his stomach, really. He’s never questioned what a good person Scott is. Never doubted it. In fact, he’s relying on it now. But thinking about it, thinking about how the boy’s history is delicately twined around his own through Stiles, it lets the uncertainty and the guilt began to build. And he can’t afford that. He has to stay strong.

“Look, Scott, this isn’t the easiest conversation for me to have,” Noah says.

“It’s okay,” Scott reassures him. “Whatever it is, it’s okay.”

Maybe he shouldn’t take comfort in the boy’s reassurances, but he does. It makes it easier to speak and now the words he’d been struggling for come to him. 

“What happened to Stiles, with the...the spirit...the posession, it put some things into perspective for me. Troubling things. You two have always found trouble, and I know Stiles was usually leading the way, headfirst into danger.” 

They share a small, understanding smile between them at the truth there, but he must go on. “But teenage trouble, it’s different than the sort of trouble you’ve been finding yourselves in nowadays,” Noah says, frowning. “And Scott, I need you to understand. Stiles is only human. I know you’re both so young, but the things you can do…the things you can heal from….Stiles can’t.”

“I-I know,” Scott says on a stuttering breath. He’s caught off guard, but Noah believes it is a topic he has given thought to. He can read it in the way he pulls into himself, the way his mouth pulls tight, lips thin. It's something that must have weighed on his shoulders, too.

“He almost died,” Noah says flatly. He almost feels bad at the pain he sees in Scott’s eyes, but he pushes on, reminding himself why he’s doing this. “He almost died, and there was nothing I could do for him. This wasn’t a broken arm. This wasn’t another concussion. He was dying in a way no one should. In a way he never should have faced.”

Scott’s eyes are just starting to shine with wetness and Noah is certain he’s doing his best to hold back tears, obvious in the way his jaw is tensed. It would be so easy, so natural to reach out and grasp the boy’s shoulder, to comfort him and reassure him. But that boy is not his son. And he has a duty to his son above all.

Still, he wants the boy to understand. “I know how bad you felt about that, Scott. I know you would never wish harm on Stiles. I know you saved him. And that’s why I’ve invited you over, because I know that you will always do what is best for Stiles. I know I can trust you.”

“Of course,” Scott agrees easily. 

“Then you must know why I have to ask you to leave my son alone. For good.”

There it is, plainly out on the table now. It was easier to say than he expected, almost a relief now that it’s no longer twisting around his heart. Scott is frozen in place, as if he isn’t sure of what he’s heard or perhaps just can’t believe it. He swallows hard, blinks, and then looks up at Noah. 

“Leave him alone?”

Noah nods. “Yes. No communication, no contact. Leave him alone and out of the supernatural world. Completely.”

“Stop...being…friends?” The words are broken up, slow and unsteady. Scott sounds so heartbreakingly young that Noah is struck with another wave of guilt. But he thinks of Stiles, his Stiles, also so young, pale and weak and fading. He thinks of Stiles, screaming until his throat is raw after another nightmare. He thinks of Stiles, gone. Just gone. And it strengthens him again.

“Scott, I am asking you to protect Stiles by staying away from him. Do you understand? Do you understand what I’m saying?” Noah asks.

It takes a moment, but Scott nods slowly, miserably. “I put him in danger. Who I am. What I am.”

“He won’t like it. He won’t understand. Stiles has always jumped first, asked questions later. He would never think to keep himself safe. Not with you, his best-friend, right beside him. He trusts you, Scott. And that blinds him to the true danger.”

“I-I understand. I never realized…” Scott doesn’t finish his sentence. He looks like someone sucker punched him, like he can’t catch his breath. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, sorry, sorry.” He chants the apologies on a broken sob, no longer fighting back the tears. 

“You don’t have to apologize to me, Scott,” Noah says. “You just need to keep him safe.”

When Scott nods this time, it is firm and certain, despite the tears streaking his cheeks. Noah thinks perhaps he can see the Alpha within, helping to steel his spine, helping him to do what must be done. It is just about the best he could have hoped for. It’s what he expected from Scott. Still, the relief that tries to settle his stomach is battling with gnawing guilt. 

He debates on hugging Scott, but it doesn’t seem like his place after what has been said. Instead, he rises and Scott follows him quietly, dutifully to the door. Noah gives him a quick speech, tells him to reach out to the sheriff’s station for professional help when he needs it, to remember that there is law and order in Beacon Hills, even among the supernatural. Scott nods absently, but Noah knows Scott heard.

He doesn’t watch him leave. Doesn’t listen for the roar of the bike, fading into the distance. Doesn’t think about what he’s just done. He breathes, just breathes, and it’s all he can do. It’s Stiles’ voice that pulls him back into the moment and he realizes his son has been standing in the open doorway, watching him with concern. 

“You okay, Pop?” Stiles asks with a thin smile, one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. It twists a knife in Noah’s gut, seeing the shadows of darkness still covering his son. But it eases the guilt, nearly, replacing it with anger. He can’t erase the past, but he can protect Stiles now. 

“Fine, son,” he answers and it’s only a beat too late, only a hint too soft.

“Was that Scott?” Stiles asks, jerking a thumb towards the bike that has faded in the distance. 

This is where he should speak, he knows, should explain to Stiles. He should prepare his son for what is to come. But he can picture the betrayal in Stiles’ eyes and for now, he’s too grateful for the casual way Stiles hugs him, too relieved that he’s home safe for another night. Instead, he lets the lie come as easy as breathing. 

“Nope. Come on, let’s grab some dinner.”


	2. Chapter 2

Noah watches, waits, anticipating the fallout. It doesn’t take long for the worry to settle in around Stiles’ eyes, a frown becoming ever present on his lips. At first, it seems like he’s trying to puzzle something out in his mind, trying to put the pieces together. That fades into a quiet desperation that makes Noah’s heart ache. But Stiles doesn’t reach out and so Noah lets him be, keeps his distance. He knew it wouldn’t be easy. Just worth it.

As days melt into weeks, Stiles only seems more miserable, more withdrawn. It hurts to see. Noah doesn’t let himself second-guess his decision, though. Because Stiles is home, every night. Home safe and whole. There’s no mysterious bruises or cuts. No bloody shirts, shredded fabric. No racing off in the middle of the night to an unknown fate. 

Noah lets himself be comforted by that, wraps himself in the security of his son, and still he doesn’t reach out, even when he knows his silence must raise attention, concern. He thinks he can see it now in the careful way Stiles watches him when he thinks Noah isn’t looking. But still, Stiles says nothing and so Noah lets him be.

He can’t stop himself from checking his son’s phone, though, sneaking it from the room while Stiles sleeps and looking for himself, looking for the words Stiles isn’t saying. There are no messages from Scott, no records of calls, no indication of a goodbye of any sort. But there are dozens of messages from Stiles, messages that are heavy with confusion, concern, moving to angry and heartbroken, accusing and pleading. Then the messages stop, just stop. 

The texts between Stiles and his other friends don’t discuss Scott much after that, but Noah thinks he can read the uncertainty between the lines. They’re all a bit lost, confused, hurt. It’s another layer that he hadn’t considered, but he reassures himself that they’re all safer for the distance. He reassures himself about a lot, actually.

Slowly, Noah allows himself to slip back into ‘before’ mode. Before Scott was bitten, before he knew the supernatural existed. Before fear colored his every thought. Life returns to a typical routine of work, home, Stiles, and he’s happy for it. He makes time for Stiles, for simple things like movies and dinners, for time out of the house. They indulge in burgers and fries a bit too often, the real greasy ones that Stiles would normally protest, and if Stiles is a little too quiet, a little too distant, well…at least he’s there. At least he’s alive. 

Noah begins to relax. To relax as much as a parent of a reckless teenager ever does, at least. He lets the last of the lingering guilt bury itself, tries to forget it, and he mostly succeeds. For him, things are about as good as anyone could ask for. He’s happy, mostly. And Stiles is, well, Stiles is there. So Noah relaxes.

It’s a Friday night and he’s stretched out on the couch, flipping between channels somewhat aimlessly, when he hears Stiles come in. He hears the boy moving restlessly around the house, room to room, aimless and uneasy. It isn’t unusual these days. Noah calls to him, over his shoulder, “Come sit! In the mood for anything specific tonight? There isn’t much on to choose from, but we can order pizza and just veg for the night.”

Stiles doesn’t answer and Noah turns, finds that Stiles has stopped pacing and is standing just behind him. He takes in his son’s appearance; face drawn, a thundercloud of emotion darkening his usually light eyes. “Son?” Noah asks uncertainly. 

“What did you do?” Stiles asks, and though the tone is clearly accusing, it’s deceptively even and calm. “What did you do?”

“Son, what are you talking about?” And he honestly isn’t sure, at first. He wracks his brain for some misstep from the day, something to provoke the clear anger on Stiles’ face. 

It just takes one word, though, and it settles into place. “Scott.”

Stiles must see the confirmation of guilt on his face, Noah is sure, because the boy’s eyes narrow and his nostrils flare. Stiles is angry in a way that he so rarely is. Not upset, not frustrated, but angry, burning with the heat of it. Still, Noah doesn’t want to give more away than he must, so he asks carefully, “What about Scott?”

“Don’t,” Stiles says sharply. “Don’t treat me like I’m a dumb child. At least give me that respect.”

“Stiles,” Noah begins, hoping for calm. But Stiles is having none of it.

“What did you do?” he repeats, though there is no evenness to his tone now. It’s all sharp, biting anger. “Answer me, damnit!” 

Noah squares his shoulders. “I am still your father, Stiles. Watch yourself.”

“He left. And I know it was because of you.”

“Did Scott say that?”

Stiles scoffs, sneers in a way that remind Noah far too much of dark spirits and not-Stiles. “Scott would never blame you. He’s too…good…for that. Not that he’s responded to me at all. No, it took me a bit, it did. But I figured this out all by myself. Because the only reason Scott would ever abandon his friends would be because he thought he was protecting them. And he would only think that was necessary if someone put that thought in his head.”

“If Scott left, I’m certain it was of his own volition.”

“Don’t!” Stiles snaps again. “Don’t lie to me!”

Noah wants to be angry, wants to defend himself, wants to yell and put Stiles in his place. But he finds he’s coming up empty when he reaches for anger, with only an emotion a lot closer to regret sitting like a rock in his stomach. It pulls a sigh from him, from somewhere deep inside. “I’ll explain. If you sit down, I’ll explain,” he offers. 

Stiles does move to sit, but his movements are jerky and uneven, like he’s fighting against himself every step of the way, and he keeps distance between them when he settles on the couch. 

“It was after what happened with you, and what followed. I had a lot on my mind. I asked Scott to come over so I could speak with him. I was worried, Stiles, with good reason.” Noah sighs again, turns to his son with what feels a lot like desperation. “You almost died. You disappeared. And Stiles, I couldn’t stand it. I couldn’t take it. So I asked Scott over and I shared my concerns.”

“I remember that day, you know. The last day I heard from him. You sent me out, told me I needed to spend a day getting back to normal, doing teenage things. Told me I should spend some time alone. You wanted to make sure I didn’t call Scott, right? And then when I came home, I was certain I saw Scott leaving. But you said no. You said no and why would I ever doubt you?” Stiles shakes his head wildly, angrily. 

“Yes, it was that day. Scott came and I told him…I told him…” The words won’t come, stuck in his throat behind a lump he hadn’t felt forming. 

“You told him to leave.”

“No!” Now it’s Noah’s turn to shake his head. “I didn’t tell him to leave, Stiles. I just told him…I asked him to stay away from you. I told him that if he wanted to keep you safe, it was the only way.”

Anger blanches Stiles’ already pale face. “You told him to stay away from me? You told him he was the reason I was in danger, that he was a threat to my life? And you didn’t think that would send him running? You didn’t think he’d feel so guilty, he’d leave and never look back because he couldn’t stand thinking he was the reason bad things happened?” His voice had risen and so had he, standing over Noah with wild, angry eyes. 

“It’s my job to keep you safe, Stiles,” Noah says, wanting his son to understand. “My job. I lost my wife, I am not going to lose you, too. Not to some supernatural bullshit that invaded our lives! I can’t protect you from everything, but I can protect you from that!” Now he’s shouting too, on his feet. “It’s my job!”

“No, Dad. Protecting me, protecting everyone…that was Scott’s job. And it was my job to protect him, too. That’s how it works. We take care of each other. But you…” Stiles actually growls, an angry sound deep in his throat. “He’s on his own now. I have Malia and Kira and Lydia. I still have the pack. Who does Scott have?”

“Scott isn’t my son.”

“Lucky him.”

“Stiles!” 

They stand in silence, too many emotions filling the room to breathe properly, let alone speak. Even with Stiles’ anger, Noah still believes in what he did, still wants to keep his son safe. But the way Stiles looks at him, as if every bit of respect he held for his father has vanished. It’s breaking his heart. It strikes him suddenly that while everything he has done has been to keep Stiles with him, he’s still losing him, in a way he never expected. 

“I’m sorry,” Noah breathes. His voice is rough, chest too tight and throat too full of unspoken words. “All I’ve ever wanted was to keep you safe, Stiles.”

“Yeah, you and Scott should have a conversation,” he snorts, though there’s no laughter in his tone. “Keep Stiles Safe is like the motto around here. Too bad no one is interested in Stiles’ opinion on the matter.”

Noah has run out of words, run out of things to say, run out of just about everything, so he settles back on the couch in silence. After a moment, Stiles sits too, though he’s clearly still on edge, still hot with the simmering anger that hasn’t quite receded from his eyes. 

“I was just thinking of you,” Noah says softly. “I don’t know how to make this right.”

“Make it right?” Stiles scoffs. But then he sighs and it’s so deep and weary, it hurts to hear. “We can’t find him. We’ve looked. I’ve looked. And he’s just gone,” Stiles says and he says it like his heart might be breaking. “He’s gone.”


End file.
